April 20, 1906


Angels. They had to be angels, those luminous beings dressed in shim-
mering white robes. God’s own angels. They floated by him on gossamer wings, just as the nuns had described so long ago. I must be in Heaven, Patrick Reilly decided. A wave of tranquillity washed over him. I died and went to Heaven.

It made sense. He remembered Stevenson Alley, deserted, except for the wagon detail. He remembered trying to balance on his good leg while grasping one of the canvas bags so he could set himself to aim his pistol at that teamster son of a bitch. Funny, he mused, you could swear in Heaven. And he remembered looking down the wrong end of Bohman’s rifle, then seeing it flash. Now he was in Heaven. Another angel floated by. Reilly felt pleased. He hadn’t been detained in Purgatory. He’d gone straight to the Lord. He didn’t deserve such grace.

Slowly, Reilly became aware of his head. It felt uncomfortably warm, as though he were wearing a wool cap in the sun. He reached up to touch his hair. His hand took forever to make the journey. No hair. Instead, his head was bound in cloth of some kind. They wear turbans in Heaven.

Another silvery angel floated by, and in its wake, he caught a whiff of something vaguely familiar … rubbing alcohol. Why would there be disinfectant in Heaven? He inhaled deeply and smelled something else … smoke. But not the homey fragrance of a hearth. It was the acrid stench of the fire he’d died fleeing. This was not the Heaven the nuns had described. The fabric of his serenity began to fray. If he were truly in Heaven, where were his parents? His wife? The Apostles? Christ?

He tried to call to one of the angels, but his tongue was petrified. His lips wouldn’t move. His head ached. His whole body felt leaden. He became aware that he was lying on his back gazing up at what appeared to be clouds, except that they were black. Smoke?

He tried to roll onto his side, but something stopped him, a weight attached to his leg. His breathing was labored. He tried to lick his lips. Sandpaper on rough wood. With an effort, he rolled partway over. Something hard and white entered his field of vision. It had the texture of stone … marble … and it looked like some sort of monument … a tombstone? In Heaven? This made no sense at all. Slowly, carvings in the rock came into focus: “Jose Jesus Bernal” followed by Spanish gibberish. Then “1870. … 39 años.” Definitely a tombstone. Reilly’s head hurt more now. Bernal … Bernal. … He knew the name. Wasn’t he the rancher who first settled Bernal Hill, the grassy rise at the end of Folsom Street where he took his girls for picnics? This was not Heaven. Reilly groaned.

“Ah, so you’re awake, lad. Welcome back to the land of the living.”

Reilly looked up at an angel in white. Only it wasn’t an angel. It was a nurse, a nun in a white habit with a winged cap.

“You were in bad shape when the soldiers brought you in yesterday,” the nun explained cheerfully. “Head covered with blood. But when we cleaned you up, it was just a scalp wound. Nothing serious. You’re one lucky fellow. A scalp wound and a sprained ankle.”

Reilly tried to speak, but all that emerged was a croaking sound.

“I bet you’re thirsty,” the nun said. “Sister Mary Agnes!” she called to another nun. “Give us a hand?”

The two nurses pulled Reilly up to sitting and held a large ladle to his cracked lips. He sipped some cool water, gagged on it, spat it out, then tried again, and was able to suck some down.

Reilly was sitting on a cot … in a jumble of cots … in a graveyard. His head hurt and so did his ankle, which was also tightly bandaged. With a huge effort, he managed to whisper, “Where am I?”

“Mission Dolores,” the nun, Sister Mary Louise, replied, “in the cemetery. The new church collapsed. The Mission is full of injured. We had to move the overflow out here, in spite of the smoke.”

So it was smoke. Reilly coughed.

“For a while this morning, it looked like we might have to evacuate—us and everyone camped in Dolores Park. The fire was charging up from Happy Valley. But then, praise God, a miracle: A hydrant on Twentieth Street held water and the firemen stopped the blaze at Dolores. But the air’s still thick as a smokehouse.”

Reilly had to strain to understand the nun’s words. Everything east of Dolores burned? His face contorted. “My girls!” He tried to stand up, but didn’t get far, and fell back in a heap. Tears welled up in his eyes.

“Where do you live?” Sister Mary Louise inquired sympathetically.

“Shotwell near Fourteenth.” Reilly sputtered. “My girls! Oh, God!”

“I’m sure they made it out all right,” the nun comforted him. “People been streaming out of that neighborhood since yesterday morning. They’re probably camped in Dolores Park.”

Reilly tried to stand again, grabbing at the nun’s habit. “Got to find them. …” He almost made it up this time, but lost his balance and plopped heavily back down on the cot.

“Sure, go look for them,” Sister Mary Louise explained, “but don’t expect to be nimble. You lost a fair amount of blood. You have a sprained ankle. You haven’t eaten. And we dosed you good with morphine.”

At the mention of food, Reilly felt ravenous. A billow of black smoke blew overhead. Papery ash drifted down on them, big black snowflakes. Nearby, on other cots, the injured were sleeping, dazed, moaning. Nuns moved among them offering water and comfort. Here and there, they pulled a blanket over a head and crossed themselves.

Reilly had to get to Dolores Park, find his daughters, then get to the Mint. He clutched Sister Mary Louise’s arm and hoisted himself to his feet. His head felt light, his legs shaky. For a moment, the cemetery whirled around him. He teetered, but with the nun’s help, remained standing.

Sister Mary Louise reached into the folds of her habit and produced a small apothecary bottle, Dr. Wylie’s Excellent Morphine Elixir. “You’ve had a fair amount of this already, but you’ll need more.” She slipped the vial into his pocket. “Make it last. It’s all I can give you.”

Reilly mumbled his thanks, then pushed away from the Sister, intent on getting to the Park. But he forgot about his sprained ankle. He took a step, stumbled, and almost crashed down on a cot occupied by a doe-eyed young woman with a heavily bandaged arm. She was pregnant and looked about ready to pop.

“Whoa now,” the nun clucked, grabbing his arm to steady him. “Hold your horses.” She turned and called, “Father Kennedy!”

A short rotund priest appeared, and grabbed Reilly under his other arm. Reilly recognized him as the kind but slovenly priest at St. Joseph on Tenth Street. “Patrick, me boy! You’re up and around. How do you feel, lad? The doctor said you were shot!” The priest’s breath smelled of whiskey.

“Father, my girls—”

“All safe, praise God. I saw Mary Elizabeth … oh, must have been around sun-up, though you can’t hardly tell with the damn smoke.” The priest coughed. “She and her sisters are in Dolores Park.”

Reilly tried to take another step, and crumpled into the priest’s arms. Then Sister Mary Louise shoved a makeshift crutch under his arm. Reilly leaned on it heavily. The priest took a step back. Reilly swayed a bit, but didn’t fall.

With an immense effort, Reilly took a tiny step. He wobbled and almost went down, but recovered in time. His head pounded. His ankle throbbed fiercely in its tight swaddling. He felt famished. He staggered another tiny step, still shaky, but better this time. “Got to find my girls, then get to the Mint.”

“The Mint?” Father Kennedy exclaimed. “You’ll not be getting anywhere near there. Soldiers have everything cordoned off. You can’t cross Dolores.”

With that, the priest and nun turned and padded off to attend to an elderly woman groaning like a rusty hinge on a nearby cot.

Reilly hobbled toward the cemetery gate. Seagulls soared among the smoky clouds overhead. Everywhere he looked, the injured stared vacantly into the gray haze as hot ash rained down on them: a man with both legs bound to splints; a woman in a ripped dress that bared a shoulder covered by a reddened bandage; a mother hovering over a child whose arm was in a sling.

Someone touched his shoulder. Sister Mary Louise. “I almost forgot. When they brought you in, you were clutching these. Here. Your lucky charms.” She handed him two shiny, oily, golden disks. Double Eagles. For a moment, Reilly had no idea why he would have been holding them. Then, overcoming a wave of dizziness, he remembered the wagon, the shootout. To steady himself, he’d grabbed a coin bag that had been ripped open by gunfire. He recalled touching the cool greasy misstrikes, but not grabbing any. He gazed down at the coins. The obverses were perfect, the starred border framing Lady Liberty’s head, her golden curls held in place by a magnificent tiara that proclaimed “Liberty.” But the reverses were an embarrassment. The lettering “United States of America” and “Twenty D.” looked fine, but the eagle and shield were hopelessly blurred, and under them, the “S” mint mark was double-die, “SS.”

Reilly thrust the coins into his pocket. He prayed that someone—anyone—had caught that double-crossing whore’s son of a teamster. Otherwise, what could he possibly tell Walther?

Reilly tottered gingerly out of the cemetery to Dolores Street. Father Kennedy was right. Across the palm-studded boulevard stood a line of soldiers brandishing rifles with bayonets, and behind them, nothing but charred smoking wreckage, and a few rats and dogs scurrying about.



• • •



Dolores Park was a natural bowl scooped out of a steep hillside just south of the new Mission High School. It was a sea of refugees turned sooty from fallen ash. Everywhere Reilly looked he saw dazed faces, babies crying, families squatting around pathetic piles of salvaged belongings, and here and there, relief workers offering ladles of water, hard rolls, and soup. He hobbled up to a Salvation Army wagon for a drink and a roll dipped in a mysterious stew. He wolfed the meal like an animal. It only made him hungrier, but the lady said, “One to a customer. Come back later.” He hobbled away.

His head and ankle hurt more now. The morphine was wearing off. He considered taking a pull from the vial he carried, but decided to wait.

“Patrick! Patrick Reilly!” It was his Irishtown neighbor, Mavis O’Leary, a big milk-skinned strawberry blond whose broad hips had birthed seven children. “Thank God you’re safe. The girls have been sick with worry.”

“My girls!” Reilly wobbled over to O’Leary and embraced her. “How—?”

“They’re fine.”

“And yours?”

“Fine. Everybody come through fine, thanks be to God. They’re all a wee bit up the hill with Brendan. Megan saved your family Bible and photo album—oh, and your baseball mitt.” O’Leary smiled, and for the first time in what felt like years, Reilly smiled as well.

Then O’Leary noticed his bandages. “Good Christ, Patrick, what happened to you?”

Reilly sighed. “Fell off a horse and got shot.” He suddenly felt exhausted. He had an overwhelming urge to lie down and sleep.

“For the love of God, man, how?”

“Long story,” he murmured. “Take me to the girls, Mavis. Then I’ve got to get to the Mint.”

They picked their way around knots of refugees clinging to salvaged belongings. It was slow going. The hillside was steep and crowded. Here, a family huddled in fur coats. There, another shivered in bedclothes and tattered blankets. West of the Park, on the hill above them, the old farm houses and new Victorians looked reasonably intact. But to the east, the teeming tenements of the Inner Mission were all gone, reduced to smoking charcoal.

Then, a man caught Reilly’s eye. Something about him reminded the Irishman of the teamster. Reilly stepped over a Chinese family cooking rice over an open fire to get a closer look. The man was crouched in the grass by a table improvised from an overturned half-barrel, playing poker. “See your dime and raise another nickel.” Coins were tossed on the barrelhead. The man was not wearing an Army uniform and his side was bandaged. Perhaps he’d been mistaken. Then Reilly spied the crescent-shaped birthmark by his eye, the same one he’d seen when Bohman sighted down on him.

“Patrick!” O’Leary called, “Where are you off to? This way!”

Reilly ignored her. There was no doubt in his mind. The gambler was the teamster. He plunged toward the card game as fast as he could work his crutch, and hurled himself at the treacherous bastard. Cards went flying as Bohman went down under him.

“Murderer!” Reilly cried, pummeling Bohman. “This man’s a murderer and a thief! Someone get the police!”

Reilly and Bohman rolled in the dirt as those in the immediate vicinity scrambled to get out of harm’s way. Reilly landed a solid punch on Bohman’s ear, then grabbed him by the throat. Bohman flailed, alternately pushing his crazed assailant away and pounding him with balled fists. Both men were injured, and neither was at full strength, but Bohman was tougher, more of a fighter. He gouged at Reilly’s eyes until the Irishman let go of his throat, then punched him square in the nose. Reilly fell backward, a bright red stream gushing from his nostrils. Bohman pounced and the two men grappled, hitting and kicking each other in the dirt. Reilly was soon exhausted. Where were the damn police? Then Bohman kneed him sharply in the groin. For a moment, Reilly froze in breathless agony. That moment was all Bohman needed. He reached into his coat, pulled out a knife, and plunged it to the hilt into Reilly’s side.

Bohman staggered to his feet. “Bastard attacked me for no reason!” No one in the vicinity moved. They just stared. “Never saw him before in my life.” Then brandishing his bloody knife lest anyone attempt to detain him, Bohman stumbled away, and in an instant was swallowed by the mob of refugees.



• • •



Patrick Reilly languished mostly delirious for three days, then succumbed to the knife wound. During lucid periods before he died, he told his daughters and the O’Learys about the 17 bags of misstrikes, the wagon party’s flight, and the teamster’s treachery. Word spread, and it didn’t take long for reporters to find their way to Reilly’s deathbed, a musty pallet in a canvas Army tent in the Mission High schoolyard. When Walther confirmed the tale, all four papers—the Examiner, Chronicle, Call, and Bulletin—ran front-page stories: FORTUNE IN MINT GOLD LOST NEAR CITY HALL.

The Mint and the Main Post Office were the only two buildings South of Market to survive the fire intact. The glass in some of the Mint’s windows melted from the heat, and a few iron shutters buckled, but the building’s granite walls held, and the hosing and bucket brigade kept the roof and windowsills from igniting. In the weeks after the earthquake, the Mint had the only potable water South of the Slot, and lines of returning refugees queued up with buckets and bottles.

The mob Walther feared never formed. The smoke, flames, and heat drove the miscreants off. No one attacked. The $200 million in the vault was saved. But all anyone cared about was the 6,491 Double Eagles that had disappeared. Of all the stories to emerge from the Great San Francisco Earthquake and Fire, the tale of the Lost Gold became the most celebrated.

For a city born in a mad rush for the yellow metal, the Lost Gold struck a nerve. The moment martial law was lifted, thousands of San Franciscans flocked to Stevenson Alley near Eighth to sift the wreckage. Fights broke out. The police moved in and cordoned off the area. Walther, his men, and a detachment of troops searched it systematically, using horse teams to haul away wreckage. They found nothing.

A police artist spoke with soldiers who knew Private Ellis Bohman and came up with a sketch that was circulated far and wide. The Army scoured the West for him and alerted police departments from Seattle to San Diego and east to St. Louis. Several men were arrested, but none turned out to be the teamster.

On the chance that Bohman might be apprehended while attempting to dispose of the gold, the Treasury Department alerted banks throughout the country to be on the lookout for anyone presenting 1906-S twenty-dollar gold pieces with an SS mint mark. But except for the two coins Reilly accidentally grabbed, none ever turned up. Years later, one of his daughters, hard up for cash, sold the two Double Eagles to a collector.

Ten years after the earthquake, in 1916, with the country preparing to enter World War I, the Treasury Department closed the books on the Lost Gold. In his final report, Chief Investigator Thomas Conrad noted bitterly that the weight of the evidence pointed to Bohman’s escape with the gold, which he must have melted down and quietly sold off as bullion.

The earthquake and fire were disasters to be sure, but as far as San Francisco’s civic fathers were concerned, they also represented a unique opportunity to eliminate its dens of depravity. The whoremasters, saloon keepers, and opium merchants were forbidden to return to Morton Street and the Barbary Coast. Street names were changed. Chinatown was rebuilt with pagodas. And crews of laborers pushed debris from the fire into the pits where the brothels, gambling halls, and opium dens once stood. With great fanfare, Mayor Schmitz announced that like a phoenix, a magnificent new San Francisco would rise from the ashes and rubble of the old.

Shortly after the fire, the Secretary of the Treasury awarded Herbert Walther and his men commendations for risking their lives to save the $200 million in the Mint vault. Then a year later, he quietly demanded Walther’s resignation for losing the seventeen bags of misstrikes. Coupled with his grief over Reilly’s death, the disgrace of being fired unhinged Walther. He became addled, not crazy exactly, but stranger than eccentric. He took to wandering from his home through Union Square to the Mint, asking anyone who’d listen if they’d seen his lost gold. The doormen at the St. Francis Hotel took pity on him. They went out of their way to treat him kindly and protect him from the pickpockets who frequented Union Square. Every day when Walther asked, “Have you seen …?” they replied crisply, “Not today, Mr. Walther. Come back tomorrow.” After a few years, the newspapers picked up on this ritual and Walther became a San Francisco character, rather like Emperor Norton, the self-proclaimed ruler of California and Mexico, who championed the ridiculous notion of building a bridge to Oakland.

Walther developed tuberculosis in 1917 and passed away during the influenza epidemic of 1919, with his wife, Mei-Lin, at his side. Mei-Lin had used her talent for languages to open a school near Chinatown that taught English to Asian immigrants and Asian languages to Americans doing business in the Far East. After Walther’s death, she sold the school and her stately home on Pine Street, and returned to her village in China, a dowager who lavished her unbelievable wealth on the astonished remnants of her family. Mei-Lin was killed in 1938 during a Japanese bombardment. She was fifty-seven.

When Walther died, his casket was carried by a contingent of doormen from the St. Francis. All the papers printed sympathetic obituaries. The Call declared: “It’s a shame the Treasury Department turned its back on Walther’s heroism in saving the Mint and all the gold in its vaults, and instead made him the scapegoat for the loss of a comparatively insignificant sum. The blame for the lost gold lay not with Herb Walther, but with the Army that failed to transport it as promised and countenanced having the murderous scoundrel, Ellis Bohman, in its ranks. Yes, almost $130 thousand in gold was lost. But our politicians steal equivalent sums—more—every day. That is why every true San Franciscan will always remember Herbert Walther not as the Mint Superintendent who lost the gold, and not as the peripatetic oddball of his later years who never ceased inquiring about it, but rather as the man who saved our beautiful Granite Lady from the flames and gave our fair city its most enduring mystery.”